The Resurrections

My sister-in-law, Caitlin Scott, was inspired by one of my husband Bran's sermons, and wrote this:



Cicadas, just
their empty husk
clung to the rails
of the back steps
in the dog days
of the brick house
in Little Rock
each of the six
crisp, claw-tipped legs
sunk in gray-blue
peeling paint. Backs
arched, torn open
by the insects
bursting out and
up and free, their
exoskeletons
irrefutable
evidence
of departure
and existence
elsewhere. The child
who found one nudged
it loose, placed it
in our army
in the dollhouse.
We three at dusk
commandeering
the lightning bugs
heard cicadas
saying something
immense, filling
the failing light
and Gothic oaks
with whispers of
a place to live
and breath and have,
at last, our being.